


Unholy Confessions

by Ulfrsmal



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blasphemy, Character Study, Confessions, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Marking, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of self-harm, Present Tense, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Scars, aka self-flagellation in religious context and slapping oneself, author knows nothing of xtian ceremony so there will most likely be inaccuracies, blowjob, fantasies, look this gets very blasphemous and sexual (IN A CHURCH) it might border on offensive, mentions of past wounds, so if I missed any tag(s) please let me know so I can tag this appropriately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28794693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulfrsmal/pseuds/Ulfrsmal
Summary: Even though Bishop Heahmund was regarded in his native church in Sherborne as a holy man who could resist all temptation, they most certainly did not know the lengths to which his religious piety could be pushed. Neither did fearless Ivar, truth be told; but today, he’s about to find out.
Relationships: Heahmund/Ivar (Vikings)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 43





	Unholy Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> The title is [a song by Avenged Sevenfold](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFcd6EYz6-8), but the lyrics don’t have anything to do with this fic. This is also meant to be a one-shot, for the idea did not leave my mind no matter how much I tried to – praise the Viking hellhole for giving me inspiration, I guess.
> 
> The words in languages that aren’t English are translated in the End Notes.
> 
> Enjoy – and please tell me if I was disrespectful of Ivar’s disability at any point. I WILL correct it if I was.

The temple is alighted with midday sunrays that come in through the stained-glass windows, their colours painting the church’s interior in a myriad of reds, oranges, and even the softest of blues. The glass is thick enough to not let cold air in, though; something which devotees seem to be silently thankful for. There is no telling when the mists outside will coalesce into grey clouds, and then into the dense rains that are so characteristic of England that even the newly-arrived Norsemen have taken notice. Heahmund walks from the sanctuary to the altar, internally worries the weather will have gotten worse by the time Mass is over.

Somehow, it is strange to be dressed in a Bishop’s garments once again; much as the Danes love to tease him by invoking that same title to his face. A part of Heahmund longs to don simpler clothes – dark leather, to offset onlookers, to not mark him out as an especially attractive prize to take. His prowess with a sword should be enough to make any fighter fear him, Norse or Saxon or true Englishman. Not that he’d ever fight against any Saxons or Englishmen, of course. God has given him one task, and it is to combat the assaulting Danes and drive them back to whence they came from. So it has been willed; so Heahmund will do.

For now, though, he must content with trying to remember the long-rusted words to today’s sermon. He reverts to Latin for all prayers before his mind can catch up with his treacherous mouth – something he will have to atone for later, and not just when these church-goers question him about it. Then again, it is not everyday they have a Bishop in their temple, giving the sermon and blessing children and grown-ups alike. Their minds will link Heahmund’s perfect Latin with the faithfulness of a true man of the cloth, if they have not done so already; and that pleases Heahmund’s pride as much as it makes him want to atone for this daring sin.

A glint of impossible blue at the back of the church, so close to the heavy doors that should be closed until Mass is over. Heahmund almost falters in his speech at the vision of a Dane’s dark armour.

Something stirs deep within him. He stands on edge, as if he’s got reason to fear for his life. There is a strange vulnerability accompanying him; on that refuses to leave for as long as he remains dressed in this attire. Suddenly, Heahmund regrets not having followed through on his urge to wear his armour’s leather trousers underneath these long skirts. It would’ve been a tight fit for sure; but also one that’d provide him with physical protection, which is something to be thankful of while in prayer. Divine intervention can only reach so far, after all. But that thought, along with wearing armour under a Bishop’s clothing, both seem too blasphemous to merit seeing themselves realised in real life.

The Norseman at the back of the church stays on foot, his back against the stone wall by the door. Heahmund pries his gaze away from the piercing blue in the man’s face, redirects it to the people in the frontmost pews.

An elderly woman with an equally ancient rosary clutched in her thin, corded hands has closed her eyes as she listens to the Bishop’s low voice recite Scripture in a language she most definitely cannot understand.

A young child, perhaps no more than seven, looking around him with the curiosity his parents haven’t been able to beat out of him, clutching the pew’s edge until bloodied knuckles go white from the exertion of keeping himself seated by his mother’s side.

A middle-aged couple holding hands, love evident in their postures, muttering the prayers in English as the Bishop says them aloud in Latin, remarkable in their simplicity precisely for being so unnoticeable at first glance.

Heahmund delivers the sermon and goes through the motions of the rituals he can still recall, knowing that every single person in this temple will frown in curiosity if he deviates from the norm.

The Norseman stands guard by the closed, heavy door. It’s clear that he’s watching the Bishop closely, but not making any move just yet. Heahmund idly wonders if he will wait until Mass is finished, as respectfully out of place as that would be for a Heathen. It’d certainly be the first time any of their folk has been so kind with Heahmund himself.

Well, someone who isn’t Ivar the Boneless – and even then, his “kindness” is more appropriately called “fascination”, or even “weariness”. Heahmund doesn’t trust Ivar, and Ivar doesn’t trust Heahmund. It seems the natural order of things, just like God intended, but it still leaves a bitter aftertaste in Heahmund’s mouth every time he decides to recall that particular detail about his current life.

Mass can finish uninterrupted; and for that, Heahmund offers one final prayer in Latin as he laces the ceremony up, conscious that nobody else in this temple will be able to recognise it for what it truly is. A few devotees come up to him, inquiring in that soft-spoken English that’s reserved for churches and cathedrals if he will offer confession too. Heahmund pretends to ponder about this for a few seconds in which his strategist’s mind and observant eyes are put to the task of figuring out if the Norseman has left.

He is no longer at that spot by the door, so Heahmund offers a kind smile to Miss Old Rosary as he says yes, there will be confession today, should any of you wish for it. And, as expected, seeing how she was the first to ask this of him, the elderly woman waits until he’s in the confession booth to enter it herself. Heahmund instantly recognises her, for her raspy voice cannot be dissimulated no matter how much she tried, but still acts as though she’s a perfect stranger. It is what is expected of a Priest during Confession, after all – and Bishop Heahmund has always taken pride in being a good Priest, although he’s always had to cleanse himself of the sin of pride after every time.

In the end, he does not have to hear any outrageous sins being confessed. Most of them go as far as having sex outside of wedlock, disobeying one’s parents, and neglecting one’s obligation with the cattle in favour of taking leisure time. None of these things are grave offenses as far as the Church is concerned, so Heahmund offers the grave sentence of praying a certain number of iterations of any prayer which English name he can recall at the time. Unprofessional on his part. He is most definitely not fit to oversee these people’s sins. Another sin of his own to atone for as soon as he stands alone.

He does not need to wait for long to find himself in much-needed, blessed solitude. This town may not be the smallest one around, but the growing presence of Danes and Norsemen and the imminent threat of raids have driven most good folk away. The Bishop wishes he had his sword at hand; he himself could be alone to cleanse the Heathen plague that scorches this town. But his weapon was taken away by Ivar himself when he captured Heahmund, and it still rested halfway atop the boy general’s lap when he offhandedly allowed Heahmund to go recite Scriptures at the church.

Heahmund finds himself kissing the wooden cross hanging down his front. If he cannot kiss his sword’s hilt before a bloody Holy War is had, he will kiss the cross and fight a different, yet related, battle. It is the least he can do now, confined as he is, bound to Ivar’s fleeting whims and ever-changing moods. But the boy general is not in here with him; and for that Heahmund offers another tiny, yet heartfelt, prayer to express his thanks to God.

He enters the sacristy as soon as he’s completely sure of his own solitude, hand still clutching the wooden cross, for it is a talisman that can ward him against all evil. The room is tiny, unostentatious; fit for a small town’s church. The stained glass at the rounded window above the door is the only fancy part of this temple, Heahmund realises with only a pang of pain. He has spent time in cathedrals; he has seen the golden chalices and richly-illustrated manuscripts held between a monastery’s austere walls. To compare those with this church is like comparing a mere human with the Grace of God. A sin. One he should not indulge in, tempting as it may present itself to him.

Heahmund knows himself to be not the purest of holy men, though. Memories of past sins, of past escapades with beautiful women and strong men, flood his mind’s eye as he disrobes. His well-worn leather armour is back in the Danes’ forth-camp, alongside his beloved sword. He will need to either make the trip back from the church half-naked or allow the Danes to see him donning a Bishop’s full regalia. Neither option is appealing enough to make the decision any easier.

The only easy part of this plight is that he has the church all for himself. He can atone for his own sins now, and in his own way. He already knows it’ll be so unlike the light-hearted praying he imposed on the devotees today; but that was to be expected. His own sins are, after all, not as light as those of simpler folks. It seems appropriate to take his own penance here, in the church, where God will most easily see it. It seems a sin of arrogance that God will take special note of him if he does things in this extreme way, and right inside a church; but Bishop Heahmund has always been a tad too fervent a believer to ponder too much about it.

Half-naked, Heahmund cavalcades from the sacristy to the church, stops in front of the small steps leading up to the altar. Prostrating himself is easy, although his muscles still protest. Heahmund doesn’t try to hide his grimace at how sore he is. Past battles have shaped his body into a mishmash of scar tissue and iron-hard resolve, even as his thighs threaten with giving way at any moment. Heahmund groans as his knees hit the cold floor with a tiny thud, muscles screaming at him from being used so thoroughly. It hasn’t even been satisfactory, he confesses in the emptiness of the temple, just a necessity. There was no pleasure in it, although he can still feel Ivar’s deep blue eyes boring holes into his form as he spun around opponents, fighting to the best of his abilities.

It is always slightly unnerving to have the boy-general stare at him so openly. It makes Heahmund feel like, somewhere in it, there is a secret joke that he is not to partake in. The Heathen always admires his sword-arm with the same keen eyes as when they indulge in a not-so-amicable round of _hnefatafl_. Piercing. Intense. Penetrating right into the Bishop’s conscience. Almost enough to lower his every defence.

Heahmund does the signal of the cross and closes his eyes. Images of Ivar’s blue eyes and cruel smirk flood his mind’s eye, illuminating the darkness behind his eyelids. This, Heahmund admits, is another thing he should truly repent for; the one thing he ought to atone for in every way he possibly can. He can recite entire Bible passages dealing with the impious thoughts that overtake the most-hidden parts of his psyche when it comes to Ivar’s subtle advances. He can already hear Danes and Norse-Folk alike mocking him for being _ergi_ , whatever the word even means. Heahmund tries to not ponder over what Ivar might say about that, about Heahmund’s tendency to dominate his bedfellows regardless of gender, of what they have between their legs.

He adds yet another line to the litany he hadn’t even realised he was reciting under his breath when Ivar’s smirk haunts his thoughts once again. The floor feels impossibly cold underneath his naked legs, for he is kneeling in only his breeches. It occurs to him that he doesn’t even know if he has started this confession with the formula he should’ve used. He mentally adds another strike to the count he will inflict upon his back as soon as he has something to lash at himself with.

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned…”

Heahmund can barely hear his own voice in the reigning silence. The lack of sound commands respect. It is authoritative, like all religious temples should be; not even the slight echo between these thick walls has caught the tail-end of his sentence. Heahmund forces his trembling thighs to bear his whole weight, forces himself to keep his posture. It would be far easier if he were lying face-down instead – but this is penance first and a confession second. He cannot self-flagellate, so he will settle for making himself burn.

Ivar has never ordered him to hurt himself. Does that make the Heathen boy more merciful than…?

Heahmund slaps himself as hard as he can, gasps at the impact. His thoughts swirl around in his mind like foam over turbulent waves. For a repenting sinner, he is sinning more now than he has in the past two weeks combined. Such an insidious, yet real, truth has Heahmund striking at himself again. A groan that threatens with developing into a full-bodied growl tumbles from his parted lips.

He has been denied of killing that handsome boy general in battle. He has been denied of sex in all its forms. He has been denied even of having a semblance of normalcy at Church in the form of a _Vikingr_ watching over him from the back. And now, it seems, God will deny him absolution, for his mind cannot stop conjuring up images and thoughts that have no business appearing while he is inside a holy temple.

A pew behind him creaks. Heahmund doesn’t open his eyes, although he flinches. His slight motion causes the wooden cross around his neck to sway; it softly hits him on the abdomen. Heahmund silently wishes he had the leverage, the distance, he needs to punch himself hard. He can imagine it happening; a single, solid hit drawing all air out of him, forcing him to double forward – and yet he would not break his self-imposed posture. To do so would be to admit weakness, to admit that he is unworthy of absolution, to confess that there is no amount of penitence he might ever do that could cleanse him of all his sins. Past and present. It is hard to worry about a future he doesn’t even know if he will have at the boy general’s side.

Short nails dig into the flesh between his shoulder-blades and roughly scrape down his back, down to where the breeches cover him. Still Heahmund does not open his eyes. How could he, when his mind insists on providing him with an out-of-body view of the angry-red lines the stranger has left on him. Heahmund knows enough of possessiveness to recognise the intention behind the touch.

“If you wish to hurt, why didn’t you tell me?”

“It does not work like that.” Heahmund growls despite himself, hating every single syllable that falls from his lips. “What are you doing here, Heathen? Do you not know that penitence is to be taken alone?”

“Then why do those people come to you?”

Before Heahmund can take a deep-enough breath to retort with a fully-fledged sentence, the Heathen carves a matching set of marks on the opposite side of his back. A shiver runs down Heahmund’s spine as his words die on his throat. Another blasphemous idea – is it God’s absolution he seeks, after all…?

“ _Ivar._ ”

“Growl at me all you want, I will not leave. Perhaps you want a knife to your neck?” The boy’s English is soft-spoken enough to not rouse Heahmund’s sensibilities about loud voices inside a holy temple, but the threat within his voice is easy to detect.

“Would _you_ deliver the blow? Would you kill a Bishop in his Church?”

Ivar’s hands grab at his exposed shoulders as the boy manoeuvres himself, using Heahmund’s body as leverage. The Bishop has no choice but to allow it, although at the same time he silently expresses to God his renounce of the heat starting to simmer within him. Ivar doesn’t seem to notice his inner struggles; or perhaps he does and decides to not mention them yet. Heahmund keeps his eyes closed even as the boy runs his sinful hands over his front, marking him.

“You do not want death, Bishop.”

His title sounds impossibly delicate in Ivar’s mouth. This does not sound like the insult it sounds like when Ivar says it in front of his countrymen. That low heat within Heahmund starts to grow in intensity.

Still, he does not answer. He has no patience left to deal with the boy general’s whims; all he wants is to confess in peace and wait for absolution to come. To have Ivar here, at his side, still clinging to him even though he’s stopped moving, feels wrong from a religious point of view. Heahmund knows himself to not be the most disciplined man of the cloth he’s ever met, but there are some lines he will never cross; there are spaces that should never be desecrated with humans’ basest instincts.

Heahmund tells himself that he doesn’t care that, apparently, Ivar seems to have different plans. As per usual.

“Why are you doing “penitence”?” Ivar questions. His nails catch on one of the Bishop’s dark nipples. It makes Heahmund jolt. His thighs threaten with letting him fall. Is this what Ivar deals with, moon after moon, day after day, minute after minute…?

“One does penitence to get absolved of sin.”

“What sins have you done, Bishop?”

Heahmund wants to open his eyes and put an end to the madness that has taken a firm hold of his mind – but he quickly finds he cannot. It is physically impossible for him to do anything other than listen to the tease in Ivar’s voice and let his body react to it. It has been seventeen days since the last time he could lay in another’s bed; too long a period to not languish for the physicality of it. Ivar’s fingertips follow an old battle-scar at his ribs, much gentler than what Heahmund was expecting.

“Wine and sex and impious thoughts.” Heahmund finds himself answering despite himself; Ivar’s rough touch simply makes words spill out of him. He can feel the boy’s smirk against his short hair; he wonders if the Devil has adopted human form to test him. It is a strangely effective disguise; one with all the allure of sex and violence, but without the fear of potentially being broken too soon. “Forgotten English prayers and battle-lust. Neglecting to repent and confess regularly…”

“Impious thoughts.” Ivar repeats in the same exact tone he uses when asking for clarification on a word he does not understand. Heahmund has never met anybody who could learn English so quickly, but who chose to use the simpler grammatical choices in spite of knowing the more complicated ones. It is… fascinating. Alluring.

Tempting.

“It means sinful thoughts.”

Ivar hums, as soft as if he were the one being touched. Heahmund wonders if that is what is happening on the other side of his closed eyelids. Ivar has not stopped tracing various scars on the Bishop’s body, but Heahmund can only feel one of the boy’s hands on him; it makes him wonder if perhaps the other is tending to Ivar’s whims. It would be quite in character for someone as disrespectful of Christian Law and Tradition to indulge his basest instincts in the most sacred of spaces. Heahmund’s thighs almost give in.

“You will fall.” Ivar splays one warm hand over Heahmund’s sternum. He’s not gloved, the Bishop realises with a sigh. Honed battle instincts scream at him that the Heathen boy is most definitely planning something which Heahmund should want no part of. “You can also think sitting down, yes?”

“The point is to _not_ have sinful thoughts.”

“Then say them loudly to me. They will leave you, and I do not care for your Christian “penitence”.”

Heahmund wants to feel offended at Ivar’s blatant disrespect of everything that he has sworn to fight for with both Word and sword. He wants to resist temptation, to not give this Devil in human skin what he is asking for; and how ironic, or perhaps fitting, that it would take the form of a man when such violent strength is exactly what Heahmund has craved since he was captured by the Great Heathen Army.

God save his soul… he can still remember the good look he took at the Heathens on that first Saturday, after they had bathed, after they’d cleaned and braided their long hair and cut their beards. It had also been the first time he saw all three Ragnarssons with their hair down. Ubbe was handsome like that, but he shone brighter once he’d braided those soft, brown locks anew. Hvitserk had been more elusive, although he was decidedly much more attractive when his own braids came off. And Ivar…

“The most attractive one walks to me and I stare.” Alarm floods Heahmund upon realising what he has just said. Ivar smirks one of his little, all-knowing smirks; and this, Heahmund can now see, light grey staring into deep blue. There is unbridled curiosity in Ivar’s eyes, an unissued challenge hidden somewhere deep. And, for better or for worse, Heahmund knows himself to be chronically incapable of denying this boy’s whims. “Shirt undone, showing skin and ink to me.”

Ivar’s hands resume their prodding, though more insistently now. He scrapes his nails on Heahmund’s shoulder, leans in close, as close as if he were about to pounce. His lips part slightly, his gaze falls to Heahmund’s exposed chest. He forces himself closer to the Bishop, whose knees decide to give in now.

“Told you.”

Heahmund growls to hide his exasperation at Ivar’s teasing tone; he has already heard enough of that to last him a lifetime. He does not need to be reminded yet again of how much shameless fun Ivar has by messing with him.

“Do you growl in bed too, Bishop?”

Heahmund feels a wave of heat wash over him. It starts from his face, making him long for darker surroundings so his blush would be hidden, and quickly spreads through his torso, coalesces at his heart, pools at this crotch. It is almost a foreign sensation after so many moons without company underneath the heavy furs that Ivar had made sure his Bishop has in his bed.

The boy general’s question remains unanswered as Heahmund’s thighs spread on their own accord. The floor cools his arse through his breeches. He swallows thickly. Ivar is still staring at him, at his body, at his scars. There is a story behind each one; all tales of religious fervour and unchanging devotion. Ivar purses his lips when he detects a white, starting curve at Heahmund’s hip. It twists along his flesh towards his back, where Ivar’s gaze cannot follow. The Heathen seems almost offended by its faded disgrace as he grabs roughly at Heahmund’s hipbone, almost as if trying to turn him around – and Heahmund, of course, resists.

“A heathen blade while I turned away.” Heahmund offers. It is far easier to speak of his past mistakes in battle than it is to speak of his most secret, impure thoughts. “I did not see it in time, and I paid the price.”

“Did you kill them?”

Heahmund instantly raises his gaze to stare into Ivar’s eyes. There is darkness in the boy’s voice, in his posture. Flashes of jealousy light his irises from the inside out. It’s absurd to think about how Ivar, his captor, is _jealous_ of someone who managed to cut him open; at the same time, though, it makes perfect sense. Ivar had declared Heahmund as his own personal prey from the very beginning, from their very first meeting. In his mind, no one can lay a single finger on Heahmund except Ivar himself. Heahmund would love to be able to boast that he is unaffected by the boy general’s possessiveness.

The shameful reality is that he knows he is not that strong.

“I did. I cleaved through the shoulder down to the chest, then decapitated them.” Ivar’s smile burns him inside as much as the wound had. “Why? Would you go after them if I had not?”

“Would that please you?”

Startled, Heahmund searches Ivar’s face for any signs of dishonesty. He tends to be much easier to read when alone with Heahmund, more prone to let his true emotions flash in his painfully intense eyes, in the lopsided curves of his smirks. And today, just as Heahmund was sure of, is no exception to that rule. Only it is not mockery he finds in the Heathen, but the unabashed, naked truth.

“You’re serious.” Heahmund whispers, his voice the definition of incredulity, yet laced with fondness. In the reverential aura of the temple, it could even be interpreted as affection; much as Heahmund would self-flagellate for it if that is what the boy takes out of him.

Ivar doesn’t retort with words. His gaze travels upwards, from the thin, white scar snaking around Heahmund’s hip to his eyes. It is just as intense as always, dangerous like only true predators can ever manage to be. Heahmund isn’t scared, though; he, too, is as much of a true predator as Ivar. Their battle of wits carries on through the ages, regardless of whether they seat across one another for a game of _hnefatafl_ or lean on each other on a pristine church’s floor. The only difference is that, now, Heahmund is not so sure if he wishes to impose his own will on Ivar.

Silence extends between them, charged with a barrage of unsaid words and half-hidden emotions. Heahmund licks at his lower lip. Ivar’s intense gaze follows his tongue’s motions until it disappears back into his mouth; and even then, he remains staring at his parted lips. Heahmund leans towards him slowly, slowly enough to grant him ample time for retreating if he wished to. Ivar’s eyes open in surprise, shine with wonder, but he stays.

He stays even as Heahmund touches his lips with his own.

Heahmund feels Ivar tremble before going extremely still. The Bishop offers one final prayer to God, begging for forgiveness for having had the gall to kiss another man, and a Heathen at that. Heahmund trembles; he’s never kissed any of the men he’s bedded over the years, because that felt a far too intimate gesture to confess even to God. But now that he’s kissing Ivar the Boneless, that simmering heat within him thrums with wild satisfaction at having claimed this Ragnarsson in a way that very few can say they have.

“Kill me now, for I don’t care.” Heahmund whispers against Ivar’s lips. The boy gasps, tries to retreat. Heahmund holds him by the back of his head, his fingers sliding easily under the intricate braids falling down in between Ivar’s shoulder-blades. “Kill me or kiss me, Ivar.”

“… is this your “sinful thoughts”?” Ivar sounds as affected as Heahmund’s greater experience knows him to be. It’s intimately pleasing to have fearless Ivar trembling under his hands, against his mouth. Unwilling to back away, yet unsure if he wishes to press on. As if he did not know himself well enough to deal with this. “You pray because you’re _ergi_ , then?”

“I’m brave enough to kiss you.” As if to prove his point, Heahmund does it again, opening Ivar’s mouth with his own. The boy gasps once more, soft like he rarely ever is, tries to match the Bishop’s tongue with his own. He fails far more than he succeeds, but Heahmund finds he does not mind. It is oddly charming, and sinful, to know a Heathen General is much less experienced in the pleasures of the flesh than a Holy Bishop. “Or did you mean something else?”

Ivar bites at his lips, violence ever-present in his every motion. Heahmund holds him against his own body, angles himself so Ivar can slide between his opened legs. They fit together quite nicely, if Heahmund dares let such impure thoughts overtake his mind. Ivar grabs at him, bites him until they both taste the iron flavour of blood. The pain is welcomed, though it still makes Heahmund growl a warning into Ivar’s mouth. He may be half-naked, but he has the upper hand right now; and Ivar, intelligent, wild Ivar, knows it well.

“If you intend to bed me, very well. But not in here.” Heahmund tells Ivar, their foreheads pressing together. The gesture seems too intimate to the boy; Heahmund cannot understand why, but he respects it all the same. It’s hard to judge Ivar for anything when he can see how his darkened gaze goes from Heahmund’s mouth to his torso. He never glances at the Bishop’s own dark eyes. “This place is sacred for me. I will not taint it.”

“You’ve never fucked in a church before?” Ivar’s words lose some of their edge from how well-kissed he is already, and some more because he doesn’t look at Heahmund in the eye as he speaks. Ivar growls when Heahmund uses his full strength to hold him in place, finally forcing their gazes to meet. The boy allows him to move him like this, even though Heahmund knows he could break free of his grasp if he truly wanted to; Ivar’s upper body’s strength is greater than Heahmund’s own. “What?!”

“You may tempt me, Ivar, but you will not have me here, in front of the altar in God’s holy house. You may only look at me here. You cannot take me in hand, you cannot disrobe me fully, you cannot have me in you.”

They are so close together that Heahmund can easily watch how black overtakes the blue in Ivar’s eyes, growing hungrier the more the Bishop speaks. It takes Heahmund more than one moment to realise the full extent of what he has just said, lost as he was in the lust clouding his mind. Once he does, though, he instantly lets Ivar go, turns towards the altar, makes the sign of the cross and repents for the verbal sins he has just committed.

Ivar observes him, momentarily too stunned to do anything other than stare at the marked lines of the Bishop’s back as he bends froward in prayer. Somehow, his armour is more flattering to his arse than these simple breeches; Ivar knows from how much he’s stared at it in the past. He watches as Heahmund hits his own chest with a closed fist, too soft to knock the air out of him, but firm enough for it to make a muffed sound. Moved by something with no discernible name, Ivar lunges forward to grab at Heahmund’s wrist.

“No. If you want pain, tell me.”

“Would you hurt me in the name of my God?”

“No!”

“Then stand aside, wait for me to finish my penitence.”

“This is not an apology, Bishop. This is you torturing yourself.”

Heahmund stays very still, gaze focused on the floor in front of him, at the shadow created by the light hitting the steps leading up to the altar. He cannot understand how Ivar’s mind came up with such an explanation for what self-flagellation is. It makes sense, he supposes, when he considers how little Ivar truly knows of Christian Tradition, how he had to ask what penitence even is for. Still, this boy caught him completely off-guard. His every word sounded alarmingly close to…

“Do you care that much about me…” Heahmund turns his head and locks his gaze with the boy’s, “… _Ivar?_ ”

The Heathen opens his pretty mouth, thinks twice about speaking out loud, and instead shrugs both his shoulders. The gesture underlines how powerful he is, muscle and sinew working so perfectly underneath his armour. Heahmund’s gaze rakes over Ivar’s fully-covered chest, silently wishing he could instead stare at the intricate designs of his tattoos, so nicely contrasted against Ivar’s pale skin.

“Does it matter?” Ivar says finally, voice wavering in between notes. Heahmund can easily recognise uncertainty, even when it comes from someone as self-assured as Ivar usually is. This is uncertain territory for both of them, then. Good to know.

“It does to me.” Heahmund sits down so he can keep the altar at his left and Ivar at his right. Somehow, it does not feel right to give his back to either. Another blasphemy he will have to pay for, whether in this life or in the depths of the Hell that this attractive Heathen is surely leading him into. “So answer me, Ivar. Do you care about me, or is all this merely another way of mocking me?”

“When have I mocked you?!” Ivar instantly exclaims, too loud for the temple’s calm silence. Heahmund frowns at him, silently disciplining him like he would a specially rebellious altar-boy. Ivar ignores him, presses on. “I fight you because it’s _fun!_ I do _not_ mock you! I _want_ you to tease me back!”

A stunned silence follows Ivar’s outburst. The boy looks downright horrified by what he has just confessed. Heahmund knows he isn’t looking any better. There is a strain in the front of his breeches that certainly was not there a moment ago. The thought of having to wait until they’re back at the Great Heathen Army’s forth-camp, of having to walk there with this hardness bothering him at every step, is agony. The same brand of lust-crazed agony that he can see in Ivar’s eyes, in his parted lips. It’s painted clearly in how he suddenly appears his own age, and not the battle-hardened General everybody thinks him to be.

“Come here.”

For good or for bad, Ivar obeys.

Heahmund doesn’t allow any of them a single second of hesitation as he kisses Ivar again, fierce and possessive and exactly how he kissed him in so many of the impure thoughts he came here to purge himself of. Ivar groans, matches his ardour with violence because he cannot compete in raw skill. Heahmund’s abdomen quivers as he pulls Ivar to his own body, never breaking a kiss that has become more teeth and tongue. Ivar groans, lets him do. This is not submission, however; this is a highly skilled warrior waiting for the perfect moment to parry and strike back. Heahmund groans as he claims his mouth, revelling in it more than he dares confess to anybody but God Himself.

It’s relatively easy to gather the boy into his arms, although Ivar is slightly taller than him if he stands at his full height. Heahmund’s mind breaks at the instant knowledge of what his subconscious demands him to do, both battle- and sex-instincts screaming up a storm within him. He allows himself a moment of hesitation, if only for his own sanity’s sake, for Ivar to believe the game of temptation and seduction is still on in full force. The boy notices the pause and chuckles against his ear, coming dangerously close to breaking Heahmund’s religious sensitivities enough for him to call off the game entirely.

But then Ivar starts to whisper dark taunts and filthy words in his mother tongue into the Bishop’s ear, and whatever little remained of his resolve to not fuck inside a church simply breaks away from him.

“You asked for it.” Heahmund growls as he sets Ivar down on top of the altar, delicate only to not ruffle the white cloth covering its smooth surface. Ivar smirks, brazen delight evident in him.

“How bad, Bishop…” This time around, Ivar pronounces his holy title like it is an insult, so perfectly identical to how he simply answered “Christian” when Heahmund screamed “Heathen” at him. “Do all priests have no…” He trails off, unsure of what the word is in English, and says it in his language instead, “… _vili?_ ”

“Will?” Heahmund guesses. The boy nods; an idea appears in Heahmund’s mind, for he’s already used to how Ivar’s own works. “Are you asking whether all priests have the resolve, the determination, to withstand temptation?”

Ivar’s wicked smirk is all the answer Heahmund needs. Before he can keep on speaking, though, Ivar does it for him.

“You are not a very good priest, _Bishop_.” Again, he pronounces it like it is a filthy insult. Heahmund’s blood boils in rage and lust alike. Ivar seems to know exactly what he’s doing to him as he languidly adds, “Maybe you want to be a bad priest. Maybe you want the same things Heathens do: fights, sex, mead. Maybe you want to be one of us.”

A damning fire burns through Heahmund’s skull, rendering him unable to speak for some long moments. His hands grab tighter at Ivar’s thighs, right over the same spots he held him by to place him atop the altar. The boy doesn’t seem to mind the bruising grasp; perhaps he doesn’t even feel it as fully as Heahmund himself would.

Suddenly, Ivar keens and forces Heahmund’s grip away.

Wordless, he stares into Ivar’s eyes, quite confused as to how a man who conflates battle-lust and sex-lust could ever protest to being treated roughly. The blue in his irises has been almost completely swallowed by black, but alarming hints of it have spilled outwards and into the normally white sclerae. Heahmund pulls back in a flash, perturbed more by what the end-result would’ve been if he had pressed onwards than by the mere fact that Ivar’s body reacts differently than most.

“Kiss me.” Ivar orders him, voice trembling where his body does not. Heahmund doesn’t obey instantly, for he is still reeling from the permanent damage he now knows he could inflict upon this boy. Ivar grows quite impatient rather quickly, “I thought you’re obedient, Bishop.”

“I do not obey men; I only serve God.”

Ivar’s smirk is a private little thing that lasts for merely a second. Heahmund lets him kiss and bite at his lips, tastes his own blood once again. Ivar’s hands go down, to his own legs; he spreads them manually without breaking the kiss. Heahmund presses closer as soon as he feels there is enough room for him to do so, although he remains mindful of how hard he pushes his own body against Ivar’s more brittle one.

“You said you will fight for me.” Ivar taunts him, grabbing at his short hair as best he can. Heahmund growls, lets himself be moved. It feels like twisted penitence for his previous grabbing of Ivar’s thighs. “How is that not serving me?”

Heahmund revolves in his grasp just enough to angle his head down. Ivar allows him this, his inquisitive gaze never leaving his Bishop. The touch of Heahmund’s lips on the exposed parts of Ivar’s neck is soft; tender, almost. It should feel quite out of place in their turbulent lives. It should feel like the one thing Ivar would scoff at, calling him weak and cowardly, taunting him for being so reverential with a man and not just with his god.

But the only sounds coming out of Ivar are soft gasps and even softer moans.

Heahmund revels in each one of them, takes them as proof that this boy has never been truly kissed. It’s in moments like this when Ivar’s vulnerability shines clearest; he’s not weak by any means, disability or not, but there is knowledge that he still lacks. The same knowledge that, God forgiving, Heahmund would love to impart onto him with his hands and mouth.

Meanwhile, Ivar’s eyes have fallen closed, the spilled blue receding further the more time it passes. He can feel how his body relaxes under the Bishop’s ministrations. It scares and excites him in equal parts; he’s still unsure of whether Heahmund will tease him cruelly for what lays in wait underneath his clothes, or if he will embrace it in a full caress. The latter would be almost uncharacteristic of this Warrior-Bishop who loves to get dirty and bloody just as much as Ivar himself does.

Perhaps that same fact is also why Ivar wishes his Bishop would do exactly that.

“Has anybody ever taken proper time with you?” Ivar’s pulse quickens when Heahmund whispers into his ear, his tone eerily similar to the one Ivar himself used while speaking in his mother tongue to a kneeling Bishop. “Or is a quick fuck all you know thus far?”

“What is it t-to you…” If Ivar meant to sound despondent, he’s failed. Heahmund finds he loves to hear how the boy’s voice breaks when he suppresses the need to moan. He wants to hear more of it. He wonders what it would take for proud, fearless Ivar to let himself go, to moan and groan and scream Heahmund’s name as he spills translucid white all over both their bodies.

“Forgive me God, for I have sinned…”

“Don’t pray!” Ivar growls in warning, shaking and pushing Heahmund until there is distance between them. A pang of painful longing flashes in Ivar’s eyes. Heahmund’s own are darkened by uncontrollable lust, although he keeps his wits enough to finish the prayer within his mind. When he comes back to the present, Ivar is still rambling on, “… dare pray to your god when fucking _me!_ ”

“I won’t fuck you.”

Ivar’s face betrays surprise, which quickly morphs into rightful rage at what the Bishop’s just stated. He launches himself forward, uncaring about how much he disturbs the white cloth upon the altar, uncaring that the shapely vial of sacred wine is still by his left thigh. Heahmund catches him easily, contains his more damaging blows but lets him lash out until their lips are about to crash.

“I will love you.”

Ivar’s thrashing stops for a second. Heahmund uses it to perch him back onto the altar, skilfully catching the wine-vial before it can tumble down. Ivar observes him as he places it back on the altar. Heahmund takes his time while he waits for the boy’s response, whichever form that may take. He busies himself with straightening the white cloth so it fully covers the altar once more.

“… will you love me unclothed too?”

“If you wish.” Heahmund rests his hands at either side of Ivar’s thighs, caging him in without doing so much as brushing against his leather clothes.

“But you’re a Bishop!”

“And yet I’ve got more experience than you, don’t I?”

“In your precious church?”

Heahmund smirks lopsidedly at how Ivar hasn’t even tried to deny his own lack of knowledge about the more carnal pleasures. This new question burns his soul, ties him down to the Heathen, seals his future descent into Hell. Alarmingly, Heahmund’s lust no longer cares. It should scare him, considering how devout he’s been even when tied up to a Lady’s bed. But it does not scare him. It only excites him, fuels him into giving Ivar the best experience of his entire life.

“I always knew I will go to Hell.” Heahmund’s eyes and smile betray the emotions he does not dare name. Ivar sees them clearly, close as he is to Heahmund’s warm body, but he doesn’t question him. “I’ll still repent later, though.” A dangerous shadow in Ivar’s painfully blue eyes. “Does that bother you?”

“Why repent for something you enjoy?” Ivar looks down, to Heahmund’s exposed torso. The wooden cross ebbs, hitting the edge of the altar in between Ivar’s thighs. If it swung wider, it’d brush against the boy’s crotch. “I thought you want this too.”

The raw admission hits Heahmund harder than hard. Growling, he claims Ivar’s lips in the kind of bruising kiss they both know they enjoy. He fights Ivar’s leather clothes, opens the outer layer and pushes it down the boy’s shoulders, down his arms, restricting his movement. Ivar growls, smiles into their kiss with what Heahmund can only describe as giddiness, and takes the leather fully off him. Heahmund immediately latches on to the newly-exposed parts of his neck, kissing and sucking until Ivar gasps again. It resounds in the empty church, the echo repeating the note.

Heahmund focuses exclusively on the only spot he’s found so far that can make Ivar gasp like that. The Heathen revolts, arches his back to try and pry Heahmund off his sensitive flesh. They growl at the same time when Heahmund tastes salted lust on Ivar’s skin. The echo amplifies their voices to the point that Heahmund fear someone outside will overhear them. The thrill of potentially having someone catching him, a Holy Bishop, locked in a forbidden embrace with a Heathen man sends a wave of shame through him.

Ivar seems to notice, for he smooths a hand over Heahmund’s hair, suddenly soft and tender. He moves one of Heahmund’s hands to the lower hem of his undershirt, hopes it’ll be temptation enough to make the Bishop stop torturing himself. Ivar prides himself on being quick-witted and open-minded to a certain degree; but this he cannot understand. He probably never will, judging by how Heahmund seems resentful and remorseful now, whereas Ivar himself only wishes for his body to know more action at the hands of this handsome Bishop.

Heahmund regales that sensitive part of his neck with another scorching kiss, his tongue quickly lapping over the reddened skin. Ivar holds onto his shoulders much tighter than any of them were expecting; suddenly, the boy is unable to control his own strength. Heahmund bites him, probably in retaliation for the bruising grip. Still, his intentions are more than clear.

“Will you mark me, Bishop? Will you give me something to show off?” Heahmund’s teeth release his flesh. Ivar giggles that quick, dangerous laugh of his. His whole body feels aflame. “Do you want to hear me brag about how I sent you into Hel?”

Heahmund hides his face in the crook of Ivar’s neck. Violent tremors shake him. His inner turmoil blurs his vision. Ivar forces him to slide one hand under his undershirt. The boy’s flesh is warm; his abdomen, taut. Ivar leads the caress, more torpid than the fluid motions Heahmund himself would choose on his own accord. Another little fact reminding him of who should be leading this – for both their sakes.

“Perhaps I want to fight you on that, too.” Heahmund feebly retorts, probably too late for it to have any real effect anymore. He’s regained control of his own hand, though by a very narrow margin, and now runs it all over Ivar’s torso. The shirt raises when his wrist does too, exposing a tantalizing sliver of pale skin. Heahmund wants to tear it off Ivar’s body. His knuckles turn white as he tries to fight that urge.

“Do it.”

Heahmund would love to be able to resist temptation in its most sexual form.

Alas, he cannot.

Ivar laughs with glee, delighted at the rip of his clothes, at how the echo picks it up and makes it linger in the hollow space where Heahmund’s soul should be. He doesn’t lift a single finger to aid the Bishop in getting the torn cloth off him, though. His delight at the rough treatment comes from allowing it to happen, while at the same time knowing himself strong enough to put an end to it if he really desired to. It is a measured kind of vulnerability, one that cannot in good faith be called true submission.

Heahmund doesn’t seem to mind; he grabs at Ivar’s ripped undershirt and tears it even more to get it fully off the boy’s toned arms. Ivar’s torso rocks in every direction with each of Heahmund’s moves. More gasps are coming out of him, louder and clearer than before. There is a storm brewing in his darkened eyes, Heahmund knows; but he’s much too gone already to even try and brace himself before it breaks him.

“Good Bishop…” Ivar purrs with the same tone one would praise a loyal dog with. Still, praise is praise. Heahmund takes it at face value because he cannot bring himself to overanalyse Ivar’s intentions right now. He already does that often enough while out of bed. “I bet you could do better, though. Can’t you do better?”

Heahmund recognises the challenge, but shamefully – _exquisitely_ to Ivar’s eyes – gives in before the thought of resisting even occurs to him. He served God during Mass today, just like he served God as he fought the Great Heathen Army. And then, he lost both his English words and the physical battle. This temptation is only what he gets for the combined weight of those losses, plus the crushing guilt of his still-unconfessed sins.

Another wave of damning shame washes over Heahmund upon realising that this feels like elated victory, and not at all like the disgraceful defeat it should be.

Ivar lets Heahmund manoeuvre and push at him until he’s lying down on the altar, lengthwise so his neck doesn’t hurt from being suspended over its edge. There’s careful consideration in each of the Bishop’s motions, in how delicately he holds Ivar. The boy’s breath hitches when he realises Heahmund is staring into his eyes so often now because he doesn’t want to see spilled blue ever again. Once the boy is properly situated, the wine-vial standing in Ivar’s peripheral vision, Heahmund walks around him, keeping one hand squarely at the centre of Ivar’s chest.

Ivar observes him, a languid smirk on his face. His trousers don’t feel as tight as the Bishop’s own undoubtedly are, but there’s still time. If there is one thing that Ivar’s experience, albeit limited, has taught him, is that he doesn’t always need his cock to reach an orgasm. His pupils dilate more as he wonders if Heahmund will catch on.

Unaffected by all the lust rampant in Ivar’s factions, Heahmund runs both hands over him, tracing the blue ink along the upper part of his pectorals and shoulders. If he’d laid the boy face down instead, he could delight in the tattoos on his back instead. It’s quite hard to decide which set he likes more. Both are alluring. Both tempt him to bend his head and trace them with his tongue.

Ivar whines, much as he’d hate for Heahmund to call him out on that, when the Bishop starts to bite at his shoulders, relishing in the tiny tremors it elicits from him. The boy quickly finds it almost impossible to keep his eyes opened. Ivar can tell Heahmund knows what he’s doing; and even then, such a sentence is an understatement. This bad Bishop could make him explode in at least seven different ways before he’d even need to open his trousers, Ivar thinks in a moment of fleeting weakness. There’s fire coiling tight inside him when Heahmund finds another of those little spots that make him startle and gasp. A low growl leaves the Bishop’s lips as they close around a mouthful of Ivar’s flesh. At this rate, he will end up completely marked in a matter of minutes.

Ivar downright _moans_ at the mere thought.

“Good boy…”

Ivar wants to protest, wants to fight Heahmund more than ever before. That kind of praise carves his heart out of his chest, gives him the emotional equivalent of a Blood Eagle. Ivar’s arms fly up to hit the Bishop – he catches them mid-air, pins them to the altar on either side of Ivar’s head. The boy squirms. He knows he’s got more strength in his upper body than Heahmund… why can’t he break free of his heated grasp?!

“Let me.” The treacherous Bishop whispers against his lips.

Much as Ivar wants to bite him, this searing kiss only makes him moan again, unable to control himself any longer. His mouth falls open on its own volition; Heahmund uses it to slide into him. Ivar’s lungs burn awfully from the lack of fresh air as his Bishop’s tongue explores him from the inside out, coiling around Ivar’s own, going out and back inside in a mimicry of intercourse. By the time Heahmund pulls away fully, Ivar’s blush blurs with the reddened marks on his neck and shoulders.

“Good boy…”

Ivar moans again at that. Heahmund shifts his hold until Ivar’s wrists lie together above his head, right against the altar’s edge. The boy is too far gone to even consider he could break free extremely easily by now, so Heahmund feels no fear of Ivar reversing their positions as he leans only one hand over both the boy’s wrists. Only then does the Bishop realise that, once again, he’s reflexively caught the wine-vial with his other hand before it could spill deep colour over the pristine altar-cloth.

Ivar squirms terribly when cool Communion Wine washes over his torso, creating a new set of dark rivers and intricate spirals over his skin. Surprised as he is, he still has the good sense to not move too much; something Heahmund appreciates immensely as he bends down. Ivar shivers even more violently when Heahmund’s tongue chases after the wine, letting it flood his mouth as much as Ivar’s taste did while they kissed, while he was biting into those strong shoulders. The Heathen lets him do, stunned and gasping for air. Heahmund already feels drunk. The boy arches his back when Heahmund’s tongue goes dangerously close to his nipple. The Bishop growls, more for show than anything else, and holds Ivar in place; the hand he’d kept on the wine-vial now slides underneath his body instead, travels to the small of his back just so he can better keep that arch.

Ivar allows him to, whining softly. He’s trying to break free of Heahmund’s grasp over his wrists, but failing quite spectacularly. There’s only so much he can do right now, when his good sense is clouded by feelings he can barely recognise as “impatience” and “lust”. He wonders if this is how his Bishop felt when he was teasing him earlier.

“Bish–” Ivar bites his lower lip to cut his words off, unwilling to give Heahmund the privilege, the ego-boost, of hearing him _beg_.

Heahmund growls his acknowledgement, dips his tongue into the shallow hollow in between Ivar’s pectorals. The boy fights his hold harder at that; Heahmund can only guess it’s because the action reminds him of what one would do to a pair of nice breasts. In a wild, and probably misguided, attempt at calming the boy’s insecurities down, the Bishop takes one of his nipples into his mouth, making sure to keep his tongue flat. Ivar threatens with getting up into a seated position. Heahmund physically holds him down, his own strength evident in how visibly his biceps flex from the effort. Ivar sighs and lays back down; Heahmund can only guess he’s satisfied with what he’s seeing. Perhaps he’s already realised that he’s driving Heahmund mad with desire. It was about time, too.

Heahmund sucks on him like he’s already done on so many partners before. Ivar likes the friction, but what gets him gasping breathlessly is the occasional hint of teeth. It falls in line with everything else Heahmund already knew about him. Thus, it also feels right to hold Ivar’s nipple in between his teeth. Ivar arches his back as much as he can, manages to free one hand. Heahmund starts to pull back from the boy’s chest to admonish him – Ivar is faster.

“Don’t you _dare_ , Bisho– _oh_ …”

Heahmund relishes the rough grip Ivar has on his hair, so tight his scalp is loudly protesting, and bites him again. It’s what Ivar wanted, at any rate. It’s what he indelicately forced Heahmund to do. Another moan escapes Ivar when Heahmund increases his jaw’s pressure around him, clearly wishing to leave more marks on the boy’s tense body. Ivar tries to laugh that dangerous little laugh of his, but he’s so breathless that the only thing he’s able to do is make his abdomen ripple. Heahmund chases the slight motion with his hand, his tongue following soon after to clean whatever little Communion Wine remained on Ivar’s torso. By this point, most of it has fallen onto the white cloth beneath his body; the wine-vial lays forgotten on the altar. Heahmund adds the sullying of the altar-clothe to the list of things that he should later pray and self-flagellate and repent for.

“Do you prefer the wine or me?” Ivar asks him then, his tone purposefully low.

“You.”

Ivar gasps at the admission, trembling like he hadn’t been expecting it at all. There is no point in lying, though; or at least none that Heahmund can still see. If Ivar has never been treated gracefully by any of his past partners, he more than anybody else deserves to know just how much Heahmund enjoys all parts of him.

“You lie…”

“I don’t.” Heahmund tries to keep the growl out of his voice because he’s been told in multiple occasions in the past that he sounds more sincere when he _doesn’t_ growl. Ivar seems the kind of man who probably won’t appreciate such an effort; but Heahmund still does it. Slithering upwards and kissing Ivar’s jaw is another tiny way of showing his truthfulness. “I don’t lie, Ivar. I’ve never lied to you.”

“You want something from me and you lie to get it…”

Heahmund does growl then, offended by the accusation and quite disturbed by the implications underneath Ivar’s words. Whatever the boy has lived with up until this point, Heahmund knows he’s got no way of knowing; but he can, and will, do everything in his limited power to lessen its impact. This boy is a good General despite his lack of age and experience, a great Warrior atop his chariot, a masterful Strategist at both games and wars. The fact that he cannot see any of it unnerves Heahmund.

“All I want from you is what you give to me.”

“You don’t want your freedom back, then?”

Heahmund falters in his kisses, stumbles over his words the first few times he tries to answer coherently. The question hangs in the echo around them, only partially covered by Heahmund’s own voice, until the church is done playing with it; and even then it resounds clearly in Heahmund’s mind.

“Would you have me free?” He asks instead of answering. It is the least vulnerable option; the least damning one in the eyes of God. The fact that he chose it instead of the more selfish response should count towards lessening his spiritual penance, right…?

“I…” Ivar trails off, looks from one point of the church’s ceiling to another in a mockery of the looking around he’d usually do when doing this upright. “… want you as you are now.”

This time, the one sputtering and gasping from the admission is Heahmund.

Ivar lets his hand slide down from the Bishop’s hair to the back of his neck. His shoulders are tense; Ivar can feel the bone underneath the thin skin. Quite the vulnerable place, should he wish to strike into it. Alas, Ivar realises with a jolt, all he wants is to feel more of the Bishop’s body against his own, and to explore these new shores he’s hellbent on showing to him.

Heahmund slowly regains the ability to move, although he does so languidly, as if it causes him a great discomfort. Something unpleasant stirs within Ivar’s lower belly, insidious and darker than any of his own urges could ever be. He instantly recognises it as the same turbulent feeling he’s always wished to avoid by keeping people at a distance. Thankfully, Heahmund doesn’t seem to realise it; he just kisses Ivar on the mouth again. The Bishop lingers past the point where both of their chests start to heave from the lack of air, intentionally keeping them lightheaded by refusing to withdraw. Ivar moans again, so soft that the echo doesn’t even pick it up – only then does his Bishop let him breathe.

“Do you want more?” Heahmund whispers against his lips.

The action is almost too intimate for Ivar to bear, though the words themselves aren’t any better; and yet he furiously nods his head before he can stop himself, before he can think better of it. Heahmund smirks, takes it as proof of how gone the boy is once more. When he leans in, it’s Ivar who initiates the kiss.

Heahmund turns his attention to Ivar’s jawline as soon as the boy gives him the space to pull away. From there, it is easy to slide down the side of his neck, past his bitten shoulders, down to abruptly bite around the opposite nipple. Ivar laughs in delight at that, smiling freely now that he knows Heahmund is too close to his own skin to see it. This tender exploration continues further downwards, though Heahmund pauses again at the boy’s abdomen to suck until the skin is reddened. Ivar wants to touch him, but stubbornly keeps his hands on either side of his own head. So far, he’s learnt that Heahmund really likes it when his hair gets pulled; and Ivar being Ivar, he will make the Bishop work for the pleasure of it.

Heahmund groans when he realises how free he is to move. It instils a false sense of security in him, one that he instinctually fights against. He may be unbound now, but he is still tied to Ivar, to God. Heahmund tries to not focus on how he thought of the Heathen first – and, as always when it comes to his boy, fails.

He runs his hands up and down Ivar’s sides until he feels him tremble under the feather-light touch. It would be oh-so-easy, so laughably easy, to tease this boy until he growled and took command of his own pleasure, of Heahmund’s body. The Bishop knows he’s always enjoyed a certain degree of assertiveness in his bedfellows; he finds it alluring when they don’t submit on the first try, when he has to work for it and trap them under his full weight. Ivar takes that sexual tug-of-war to a whole new level, though; the most impressive thing is that he does it just by existing as gloriously dangerous as he is. The thought of being immobilized by the boy’s weight sends a thrill down Heahmund’s spine.

“What are you thinking about, Bishop?”

“You.”

“Me, how?”

“You, on top of me.”

“Would you let me fuck you?”

Heahmund’s hands stop in their exploration of whatever little of Ivar’s hips is exposed above his trousers’ hem. He seems to not have hardened much since the last time Heahmund stared at his crotch.

Ivar grows restless when he doesn’t answer as immediately as he’d been doing up util that point. His growls aren’t as effective or hard-hitting as Heahmund’s own, because he’s both lying prone and squirming petulantly, but Heahmund heeds them anyway.

Besides, it is easy to put two and two together. Ivar’s epithet can be taken in more than one way, after all; and English-speaking slaves gossip tremendously mean when they think no other English-speaker is nearby. Heahmund had his own hunches about why this boy is “boneless”, exactly, but this is certainly not what he’d been expecting.

“Honest to God, I would.” Heahmund confesses against the narrow space between Ivar’s navel and the hem of his trousers. He doesn’t know how he’s kept the growl out of his voice, but it doesn’t matter. Not when his words are far more important, far rawer. “I would.”

“Say it full.”

Heahmund looks up to find Ivar already watching him, propped up in his elbows. Some dark strands have gotten loose from their tight braids, and now hang around Ivar’s face in airy waves. Heahmund follows them with his gaze, suddenly thinking they look more pronounced after the locks have been coiled tight for a long time. Ivar’s eyes catch his attention; the boy is looking at him with the same painfully blue gaze that watched him from the back of the church while in the middle of Mass, though none of it has spilled. The familiar vision comforts Heahmund, lowers the guard he’d raised instantly after Ivar had commanded him to admit such a private, impure fantasy out loud – and in such a holy place, no less.

“I would let you fuck me, _Heathen_.”

“No. Say it again. Use my name this time.”

Heahmund wants to be annoyed at the boy’s petulancy, wants to dismiss him as merely another bratty child who’s just starting to be an adult for the first time in his life. He finds it impossible, however; the magnetism in those eyes is too powerful, as is the visible strength of his upper body, and the sinful temptation of his hipbones disappearing under his trousers.

“I would let you fuck me… _Ivar_.”

“Better.” His smile errs on the side of sweet, although it’s mostly meant to tease Heahmund. The Bishop recognises Ivar’s attention as him wanting to see Heahmund riled up, unable to control himself. His heart warms like his loins at the fact that the boy, mean-spirited as he can be, did revel in all of Heahmund’s softer caresses. “Tell me what you’re thinking about, Bishop.”

Heahmund bends his head with the same reverent fervour he demonstrates every time he gently brings his sword’s hilt to his lips. The kiss he gives to Ivar’s hip is just as respectful as the one he gave the wooden cross earlier today. His lips catch on the bone under the thin skin, so Heahmund kisses the same spot again, fingering the front of Ivar’s trousers at the same time.

“Impatient.” Ivar accuses him, pouty like Eve must’ve been when she got Adam to bite into the Forbidden Fruit.

Despite his word, though, Ivar allows him to slide those trousers down his thighs with only a shadow of doubt crossing his features. Heahmund takes his time, ever mindful of Ivar’s body, watches the boy’s every reaction for any signs of discomfort. He imagines this boy has every reason to be reserved, to not want anybody disrobing his lower body, to desperately hide his legs from everybody’s sight. The fact that he’s letting Heahmund pull them down like this says more about trust than anything and anybody else the Bishop has ever known.

Luckily, no signs of physical discomfort arise to the surface of the boy’s exposed skin; no blue spills even when Heahmund unceremoniously lets the leather pool around the top of Ivar’s calves, its thick folds covering his knees. They catch on the hem of his boots, preventing Heahmund from taking them fully off, but Ivar seems more comfortable like this, so everything is well. Ivar doesn’t even protest at how his feet are dangling well over the edge of the altar; he’s too tall to fit perfectly on top of it.

“What will you do to me, Bishop. What do you wish to do…”

Ivar didn’t intonate any sentence as a question, but Heahmund finds himself acting as though he had. He can feel the boy’s penetrating gaze locked on him, on his well-bitten lips, on the tiny droplets of red that have caught on his beard.

“I’ve already told you. I will love you.”

“You, loving a Heathen? That will be new.”

“Not nearly as much as you think.”

Heahmund’s muscles lock up the moment he realises exactly _what_ he has just confessed. He anticipates thorny words and thornier actions, and thus tries to mentally brace himself. Ivar could tease him for such a raw admission, could take his words and his actions apart, could torture him like he tortures his enemies…

Surprise overtakes Heahmund when no retaliation arrives. He slowly dares look up at the boy’s face from his kneeling place between his half-covered legs at the foot of the altar.

Ivar is observing him with the same inquisitive look he always watches him with. His skin is flushed, his mouth is half-opened like he’s about to speak. Heahmund adds a new hit to the ever-growing list of lashes he will have to inflict upon himself later, to be cleansed of this encounter.

Something within him rebels – something which does _not_ want to be cleansed of his boy’s presence on his hands, on his tongue, on every part of his body that’s touched this handsome Devil in human skin.

Heahmund trembles. He buries his own weakness in the crook of Ivar’s thigh, his lips falling open against the sacred place where thigh meet hip. It’s the exact kind of kiss that would prompt anybody’s legs to part like the Red Sea under Moses’ command. Ivar’s own, however, do not fall to either side. Heahmund has already realised the reason why, so he doesn’t take it personally nor thinks it’s an insult to his skill in bed. Instead, he just hooks one hand around Ivar’s knee – his skin is so warm, damp with sweat – and slowly opens his legs himself. Ivar gasps but lets him, his face bearing an expression caught in between surprise and lust.

The motion dies much before what Heahmund had wanted, for Ivar’s trousers are still around his legs, and they restrict his movements something awful. Heahmund growls, but doesn’t try to correct that. Ivar has given him no signs of discomfort with the state of his clothes, so this must be alright. God knows this boy will instantly speak up, or move things along, if something wasn’t to his liking. It’s another fact of life, one of the littlest things that drew Heahmund into him in the first place, back when they’d just met. Ivar possesses an iron will and the means with which to shape the course of history to his own liking. But that thought is blasphemous, for only God can shape things so. Heahmund hits his own sternum with his closed fist.

“No more of that.” Ivar’s tone is burning iron enveloped in a wet rag – deceptively soft and unguarded. “No more hurting yourself for no reason.”

“Then torture me, beautiful Devil.”

Ivar, far form disturbed by having been called the antithesis of all that Heahmund stands for, just giggles at his plight. The tonal harmony of his actions with the title the Bishop has bestowed upon him doesn’t escape either of them, though Heahmund’s face betrays it more.

“Is that what I am to you? “Beautiful?” Not broken?” Heahmund kisses the base of Ivar’s cock, moaning at how warm and solid it feels under his lips. The boy’s voice dissolves into a long moan.

“You tempt me, Ivar.” Heahmund confesses as he runs his lips upwards, chasing the flavour at the crown, “Surely you know that…”

“There are easier ways of falling into my bed, Bishop.”

Heahmund’s gaze scorches Ivar as much as Ivar’s words have scorched him.

Ivar smiles one of those rare, true smiles. Heahmund’s belly ties itself into a knot at how… vulnerable Ivar looks right now. Almost _too_ vulnerable. Thankfully, Heahmund knows enough about him to know how frightfully easy it’d be to truly wound Ivar now.

Something dark and alluring glows in Heahmund’s eyes as he looks up the length of Ivar’s body. The boy meets his gaze, reciprocates with a flash of his own darkness.

Then, something falls into place. It is something from which no prayer to God will ever save him. Something of which Heahmund does not want to be cleansed.

When he takes the head of Ivar’s cock into his mouth, the boy is still looking only at him. His voice resounds through the church as he moans, freed from self-consciousness by Heahmund’s words and actions alike. The Bishop closes his eyes slowly. Ivar’s flavour extends throughout his mouth; sweet yet salty, thick enough to cloud his senses with the desire, the _need_ , to make this as enjoyable as possible for the boy. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know the extent to which Ivar can feel him sliding his tongue around his head, underneath his crown.

“How many people have you done this to…” Ivar trails off with a blissed-out sigh, too breathless to intone it as a question. “… _Bishop_ …”

Heahmund doesn’t feel too inclined to share that information, lest it awakens some kind of retroactive jealousy in Ivar. He wouldn’t put it past the boy to simply eliminate every other possible contender, until the only suitable bedfellow who remained was Ivar himself. Besides, he cannot possibly be expected to speak around a mouthful of cock. None of his words would be intelligible if he did.

Ivar grabs at his hair with violent force when he doesn’t respond. The boy pulls Heahmund away from his own flesh, sighing when the motion makes the Bishop’s long tongue slide faster against his sensitive head. Heahmund lets his mouth hang open just to give the boy something sexually explicit to look at. It feels deliciously sinful to have Ivar trace his wet lips with his fingertips, looking almost fascinated by how his own fluids stick to his Bishop’s face.

“Does this hurt?” He asks suddenly, his thumb brushing against the same place he bit earlier. The wound has not yet closed; a tiny rivulet of red stains Ivar’s fingertip.

“A little.” Heahmund whispers against his fingers. The urge to kiss them is much too strong to resist.

Ivar pulls away the second he feels himself kissed, holds Heahmund right above his own cock, further tempting him into submission. Still, there is coiled strength and a lot of personal intent behind Heahmund’s apparent surrendering. Ivar delights in it; he’d never have his Bishop any other way.

“You are easy to tempt.” Ivar smiles another tiny, true smile. Heahmund’s heart skips a whole beat; for a second, he feels himself fall and sink deeper into the warmth of Hell – and, apparently, Hell is not fiery red, but luminous blue. “Did you know I can feel everything you do to me?”

Heahmund shakes his head as much as Ivar’s bruising grip allows him to. Words are hard to muster up when suspended in time and space by his Heathen’s brilliant gaze.

“I can’t… respond.” Ivar looks down at his body with the same hate others look at him with. Heahmund’s heart is tearing. “I will feel you, Bishop. But I will not…”

“I do not care.” His voice feels and sounds as raspy as if he’d never used it for a thousand years, “I do not mind. It’s still you.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” Amusement is back in the boy’s tone, though his smile does not reach his eyes. Another piece tears off Heahmund’s heart. “I _will_ come on you, if that’s what you thought of. I just can’t control how I react to you.”

“I still do not mind.”

Ivar’s gaze holds more of an interrogation than his smile does, but Heahmund rises to meet it anyway.

“It’s still you. It’s part of you. That’s all I care about.”

“You’re not a very good Christian.”

Heahmund smirks at that. It pulls on the wound at his lip, but that only adds to the excitement boiling wildly underneath his skin. Ivar’s words are familiar, part of a routine they’ve danced a thousand times by now. They’re no longer in uncertain territory, probing at the terrain before stepping on it to see if it will give way. This is simply another part of their games, of the push-and-pull they both have grown so intimately fond of. By inviting it back into their conversation, Ivar has singlehandedly pulled Heahmund’s heart back together and gave him something to latch onto to move forward.

“Stop tempting me, then.”

“I thought you have pride because you resist that.”

“I cannot resist you.”

A second after those words leave Heahmund’s lips, Ivar drops him back around his cock. Heahmund growls, the vibrations making Ivar tremble in his grasp. His tongue swirls all over Ivar’s head, not following any particular rhythm. He’s merely appraising his boy, playing the melody by ear just to hear Ivar sing. Of course, the Heathen is much too proud, or maybe much too guarded, to allow himself the luxury of making a lot of sound straight away. Heahmund doesn’t mind; this, too, is a part of Ivar that he cannot resist.

Ivar lets him roam free, even though he’s got one hand grasping at the edge of the altar until his knuckles turn as white as the cloth furrowed inside his fist. Heahmund recognises the signs of anxiety before they fully manifest in Ivar’s breathing pattern, and promptly changes his tactics.

“Ah…” Ivar moans, head rolling backwards slightly, when the wet heat of his Bishop’s mouth envelops his cock once more. Heahmund looks up at him; Ivar can catch his gaze for only a second before it makes him moan again. “ _Ahh_ …”

Heahmund holds his gaze, steady like he is while keeping a defensive stance with his sword. He sucks hard, gives Ivar a hint of teeth all around his girth. The boy trembles, his mouth opening in a genuine grin that has Heahmund falling deeper into perdition. Not even the flames of Hell could burn him hotter than Ivar’s demeanour – another blasphemy that Heahmund tries his best to not dwell too much on.

He fails.

He fails, because Ivar’s hand is back on his head, fingertips curling close to the shell of his ear. Heahmund knows he won’t caress him, not when he’s got Ivar’s gorgeous cock in his mouth; but he can dream. Daydreams have quickly become his only sins since the Great Heathen Army captured him – no, since _Ivar_ captured him – that’s why he’s so wound-up now, Heahmund tells himself. The vicious cycle of sin and penitence he’s worked for himself simply cannot work when he’s denied the opportunity to _sin_ ; and this encounter is only his own way of returning back to that vicious cycle.

Ivar moans louder above him. The echoing sound destroys Heahmund’s thoughts.

“Mine…” Ivar whispers, his voice as raspy as if he were groaning. He pushes his Bishop further down his cock at the same time. Another sound pretending to be a groan escapes him when Heahmund swallows around him, “ _Mine!_ ”

Heahmund emits a groan of his own. Whether he’s agreeing or disagreeing with Ivar is up in the air, or perhaps down in his loins, but that’s alright. It does not matter right now. The only thing that matters is the delicious, blunt pressure of Ivar’s head hitting the back of Heahmund’s throat.

The Bishop revolts, tries to gain the upper hand and worship Ivar in his own terms. The boy’s ministrations are too rough, too frantic and inexperienced. If Heahmund wishes for this to be memorable, he needs to fight Ivar. It’s part of the back-and-forth they both enjoy so much, too. It falls into place perfectly. Impossible to resist.

Ivar starts to laugh the moment he feels his Bishop fighting him. The sound rings clear in the empty church, reminding Heahmund of exactly the magnitude of the sin he’s committing. He dares look up in time to see how the boy’s arms tremble; he’s fighting to stay upright just as much as Heahmund is fighting to control his own oral services. Ivar seems utterly unable to let him win easily; so Heahmund changes his angle.

“Why’d you stop?!” Fury flashes in those deep, blue eyes of his. Heahmund buries half his face in the boy’s crotch, lets his pride jolt against his own neck. Ivar’s head leaks onto his cheek. Heahmund hopes he’s giving the boy beard-burn right on his pride as he locks his gaze with Ivar’s, unwilling to not see what the boy’s reaction is. “Dirty Bishop… what is it now?”

“Will you always try to lead?”

“Of course!” Ivar shrugs one shoulder. If he’s going for nonchalant, he misses the mark entirely; Heahmund can only read the gesture as bratty. “I’m above you now. So I lead.”

“Then should I cover your body with mine?” Heahmund growls, making sure to use the same grittiness he knows makes Ivar’s lips part. Try as the boy might to cover his true reactions, Heahmund has seen enough of them today to know what he does to his boy. “Should I lay you down underneath me and love you that way?”

Ivar’s mouth opens more. He doesn’t respond.

When Heahmund latches back onto Ivar’s cock, the boy doesn’t fight him. Those very blue eyes of his have gone almost entirely black with desire somewhere along Heahmund’s questioning; now, they watch him closely. Heahmund lets him slide down his throat once more, taking his time to not choke himself. As erotic as that would be for both of them, it wouldn’t truly suit the sweeter mood Heahmund has worked so hard to establish and maintain. They can always ramp it up later, on another encounter. Perhaps by then his boy will have learnt enough to lead himself, Heahmund daydreams while he goes down.

The thought of having more chances at exploring Ivar’s body, at marking him up and devouring dark wine and white spend off his toned body, makes Heahmund’s head spin.

The head of Ivar’s cock caresses the back of his throat. The sensation of being so filled is certainly doing wonders for Heahmund’s own arousal, confined as it is within his breeches. There’s as much moisture gathered at his front as it is pooled inside his mouth. Heahmund physically swallows Ivar; at the same time, he also figuratively swallows the urge to take himself in hand. Holy Scripture says God forgives any and all, absolves all devout followers of all their past sins – why does this simultaneously feel like too much of a sin, and like it is no sin at all…?

“… so deep…” Heahmund only catches the end of Ivar’s whispering, aided by the church’s echo. The way in which it can quickly go from ally to enemy, and to ally again, is fascinating; almost as much as Ivar himself. “How do you… do it…?”

Heahmund takes pride in how breathless his boy sounds. Ivar sighs out in bliss, one hand falling to Heahmund’s hair. Instead of trying to dictate the pace, though, he just holds his Bishop flush against his pelvic bone. There’s a wicked sort of fascination inside his eyes as he watches how perfectly he fits within Heahmund’s throat. None of his length remains outside; he can feel the Bishop’s nose and lips pressing against his skin. He traces the high arch of Heahmund’s cheekbone with his fingertips, curious and blissed out on equal measures. His Bishop’s eyes have fallen closed; he looks just as delighted as Ivar himself as he keeps his cock warm. The sensation is new to the boy, whose experience is mostly rougher and quicker than this… this reverential…

“Are you worshipping me, Bishop?” Ivar asks, his voice too soft for the tease to bite. “I thought you only worship your god.”

Heahmund’s eyelids open slowly. His eyes are watery; Ivar instinctually knows his vision is blurred. He wonders if him keeping his Bishop so close is preventing him from breathing normally. The thought would’ve excited him once, driven him to take a firm hold of the Bishop’s hair and slide him along his shaft until he spilled deep down his throat. His hand curves around the back of Heahmund’s head.

“Why are you crying…?”

Heahmund lets himself be pulled backwards. He keeps his mouth opened and his jaw relaxed. Ivar’s cock slides delightfully solid yet soft over his tongue. The head catches on his lips. Ivar carefully manoeuvres him until he slides fully outside.

“Why are you crying, Heahmund?”

There’s something tantalizing in how Ivar says his name, awkwardly forming the syllables. His pronunciation is slightly off, skewered by both relentless arousal and the word belonging to a language he doesn’t speak perfectly just yet. Heahmund loves it even more for how subtly off-kilter it is.

“Why do you care, Ivar?” He asks through the onslaught of tears. Shame coalesces inside his soul, swirls unpleasantly hot in his belly. It mixes in with his own arousal until it distracts him from the until then imminent need to come. Turns out this _is_ a sin after all – one that God is already punishing him for, one he will never be able to wash away from his skin, not while he still lov–

“Is it because of your god? Because you think he does not approve?”

Heahmund glares. The effect is utterly destroyed when he blinks back more tears.

“Lady Freyja approves.” Ivar traces the underside of one of Heahmund’s eyes with the pad of his thumb. “She’s the Goddess of War, and of Love. Many people devout sex to her.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You never explain it.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You don’t know that, because you never explain it.”

“It’s a sin.”

“And?”

“And I should not do it, yet I do.”

“So you will say sorry later. What’s the problem?”

“Instead of repenting earlier, I should be able to not do it in the first place!”

“Then move away from me.”

Ivar’s hands leave Heahmund. The boy scoots backwards onto the altar, so that his cock isn’t as close to Heahmund’s lips. Then, he moves his legs as much as he can; Heahmund can only guess Ivar’s trying to no longer cage him in.

“If you want it, stay. If you don’t want it, go. I can…” Ivar trails off as he thinks of the right word for a moment, which breaks the flow of his sentence. It annoys him to the point of repeating himself for maximum effect, “I can _desecrate_ this altar on my own.”

Heahmund keens like a wounded animal, lunges forward, faster than Ivar can keep up with in his current state. His back hits the stone altar with a _thud_ and a jolt of pain. He moans at the violence infusing his Bishop’s every move. There are fingers tugging at his braided hair, a hand curling possessively over his chest and covering the bitemarks around his nipple. The weight of a rock-hard body atop his own keeps him unable to move. The wine-vial has finally hit the ground, spilling whatever remained inside all over the floor at the altar’s foot.

When his Bishop kisses him, his mouth is invaded by both his low growls and his nimble tongue.

Ivar circles his arms around his shoulders, keeping him close. Somehow, having his Bishop pressed against him from chest to thigh is making his head spin just as much as being inside his throat did. There’s desperation in his Bishop’s kisses, and hints of a rust that don’t come from the dried blood at his lower lip. Ivar lets himself be kissed hard and wild, lets his Bishop take from him whatever he wants. Gods, he’s really teased him too much today, hasn’t he…

“You ruin me.” Heahmund confesses against his mouth, so soft the echo doesn’t pick any sound up. “Ivar Ragnarsson, you ruin me…”

“Pleased to be of service.” The cheeky reply earns him another growl and a new bite at the side of his neck.

“Will you grant me release, wicked Devil? Or will you keep me chained to you forevermore?”

“Both.” Ivar snakes a hand downwards, in between their joined bodies. It’s a tight fit. Heahmund would love to help, but he barely has enough wits left to assist his boy in this pleasurable quest. “I can make you come, Heahmund. But you still belong to me.”

Curiously, his Bishop does not fight back; he only positions himself so his cock lies aligned with Ivar’s own.

Their differences and similarities are laid bare in a matter of seconds. Ivar can get merely a quick glance before Heahmund’s body lies back down on top of him, obscuring the view of their cocks but offering more kisses and bites in return. Ivar initiates it all this time, his mouth sliding against Heahmund’s while his mind’s eye still focuses on how his Bishop’s cock is slightly longer than his own, yet not as thick. Ivar doesn’t even know when he disrobed completely; he can only guess it happened somewhere while his cock was in Heahmund’s mouth. Somehow, the knowledge that he is now sliding his tongue into the same mouth that held his cock before excites him.

Ivar’s hand cannot wrap all the way around both their girths; they have to content with a loose grasp and whatever friction they can accumulate by rocking against each other. Still, Ivar has the forethought to cover his Bishop’s cock with his palm. He’s been teased to Hel and back today; he deserves unmeasurable pleasure for being so bloody… _perfect_. There’s truly nobody else who has ever captured Ivar’s attention like this, there’s nobody else he would rather have laid atop him like this.

Heahmund moans into his boy’s mouth, wanton and unafraid of letting it show. Any and all reservations he might’ve had about this sinful act have melted away, like ice under warm, spring sunrays. It’s impossible to focus on anything other than the delicious kisses and tiny bites his boy is giving him, and the uninterrupted slide of his palm against his cock, and how firm and real his body feels underneath Heahmund’s own. No thought can appear fully formed in his mind.

There is a certain kind of liberation in knowing himself free to stake his claim on his blue-eyed boy, in having his consciousness reduced to the points in which his body touches his boy’s. The action resembles the controlled in-and-out he’s given to all past partners, who had moaned quite loudly for him; but the feeling inside him now is nothing like that. There’s no shame, no remorse, when Heahmund realises he’d been considering only his own pleasure; it showed in the brutality behind his every thrust. Now, although hints of that same violence ripple through his hips, he’s more than happy to simply grind his cock against his boy’s own – not trying to control the action, but merely enjoying it.

Heat explodes from somewhere deep within his chest. His soul feels ablaze. Is this what condemned sinners feel like when they recognise they’re completely unsalvageable? Or, on the contrary, is this what immortal elation feels like to a mortal body?

Heahmund buries his face in Ivar’s shoulder, groaning at every breath he takes. His Bishop’s rhythm is so awfully off-beat that Ivar wants to tease him for it; but it’s not like his own is any better, so he relents. He can tell Heahmund is hovering closer and closer to the edge of exploding in translucid white. “The edge of madness”, Ivar supposes his Bishop would describe it as. He’s certainly remorseful enough to think that something pleasurable, like the hardest orgasm of his entire life, is also something he needs to be punished for.

Oh well, Ivar thinks while twisting his hand just slightly, so the callouses from his axe’s handle rub against his Bishop cock. If he wants punishment, he will have it – by a Heathen hand.

Heahmund trembles more than he remembers ever having trembled from a hard orgasm. Its onslaught hits him harder than hard, extracts all energy from his tense body. He can’t recall ever coming so fast, nor so much. He bites deep into his boy’s shoulder to drown his shouting. Shame grips him tight at the thought of someone catching them like this. But it also makes him release another thick rope of white onto Ivar’s stomach.

His boy is practically _purring_ underneath him. He cannot contain his own sounds, either; Heahmund wishes he’d had the forethought to wrap all of his boy’s limbs around his own body. Ivar can only moan louder at the feeling of a warm tongue lapping at the newest bite on his shoulder. His Bishop’s chest is heaving, and pressed so close to Ivar’s that the Heathen can barely breathe. He’s not protesting, though.

“Good boy…” Ivar whispers against Heahmund’s hair. He’s much too breathless, too aroused still, for the tease to feel as such. The problem is that Heahmund cannot take it as praise, either; he’s already blushing crimson deep and scrambling to hide his shame from Ivar’s gaze.

“That’s my line.” His Bishop’s voice is much raspier than what Ivar noticed it sounding like mere moments ago. “Damn you, Ivar. You’re the Devil Himself…”

“You love me like this.”

Heahmund tenses. For a moment, Ivar fears he’s gone too far, because his own voice didn’t sound right either, and now his Bishop might think Ivar has just revealed the last of his remaining, deepest secrets. None of them could bear that. Not now. Not here. Not when enveloped in the sensibilities and traumas that religious fervour has etched into Heahmund’s body, into his mind.

“… are you confessing to me?” Heahmund’s lips brush the most sensitive parts of his neck. His facial hair tickles in the wickedest way possible. Ivar shivers against his will – he instantly knows he will definitely vie for a repeat of this encounter as soon as he can. “Is that what’s happening now? You saw me at confession, and now you wish to imitate that?”

Ivar sighs heavily, strangely freed by Heahmund’s words. This… is something he can work with, though it was most definitely not the meaning behind his admission. Those words simply flowed out of him before he could stop them. He wonders if that means they’re a lie he’s repeated so many times to himself that he now believes it fully. That is the least terrifying option; and the only one Ivar’s fraying mind can consider right now.

“Don’t mock me while you hold my cock.” Heahmund’s voice has regained some of the grit that attracts Ivar so much. He sounds steadier, too. His stamina must be greater than Ivar’s own… another little thing for Ivar to be both envious of and attracted to. “Can you do that, _love?_ ”

If his Bishop intended it as mockery, Ivar’s cock begs to differ.

Heahmund feels his boy jolt against his own cock and smirks that wild smile of him that only comes out during a particularly gruesome battle. There’s unbridled pride, and God forgive him but he cannot stop, not now and not anymore, he’s going straight to Hell for loving his Heathen boy general, he’ll follow this beautiful Devil to the depths of the Hell he wishes to reside for eternity in…

“You’ve gone quiet, love. do you enjoy my voice so much?”

“F-fuck y-you…”

“You’re trembling, love. I wonder if you can come undone like this, just listening to me telling you how filthy you are.”

Ivar trembles more. His eyes have fallen closed, but his mouth has opened. It’s too easy for Heahmund to slide his tongue inside once again. Ivar’s hips jump. Heahmund blindly reaches down and bats Ivar’s hand away from their cocks. The boy growls, tries to fight him, thrashes about. Heahmund must use his full strength to pin him to the altar, but he manages to do so in a matter of minutes. Ivar growls, glares at him. There are some hints of blue at the outermost parts of his sclerae. Heahmund repositions himself atop the boy’s lower body until he’s not leaning his weight directly on him, but on the altar itself. Ivar’s glare doesn’t diminish; however, that dangerous blue recedes. Heahmund takes it as a victory.

“What are you doing, _Bishop?_ ”

“A Devil is pinned to my church’s altar, and you think I will let him go?”

“I’m no devil! I’m a General!”

“To me you are both.”

Before Ivar can protest again, Heahmund kisses him deeply. Ivar tries to set the pace and roughness to his own liking, but Heahmund denies him. No matter what his boy might try to do, Heahmund has both done it to others and had others do it to him. It’s only a matter of muscle memory at this point; and they remember this just as well as they recall actions during a swordfight. There are some things in life that Heahmund cannot forget; and they are the same things dragging him deeper into Hell. Oh, God forgive him…

Ivar moans into his mouth when he grinds his softened cock against the boy’s hard one. The sensation is dangerously close to overstimulation for Heahmund, but he doesn’t stop. He deserves this pain. He deserves the shame and the guilt and to have his boy claw his back bloody. Heahmund lets go of Ivar’s arms just so he can wrap his own around his boy’s body – one arm supporting his neck, the other around the small of his back. Ivar’s own instinctively fly to his Bishop’s shoulders. Short nails rake down Heahmund’s flank, leaving angry red in their wake.

“Do not hesitate, love.” Heahmund whispers into his boy’s ear. He ebbs his hips in a very purposeful move that always makes his partners scream while he’s penetrating them. He isn’t within Ivar’s body now, true; but the mental image seems to appear in both their minds anyway, judging by how Ivar keens. “I marked you, didn’t I? Aren’t I your Christian pet? Shouldn’t you mark me too?”

Ivar digs his nails more than deep enough between Heahmund’s shoulder-blades to draw blood. He growls at the feeling of being clawed open. God will judge him a sinner, but Ivar’s rough treatment of his body feels like the purest form of exaltation…

“ _Minn, minn, minn, minn_ …” Ivar mumbles. It seems almost unbelievable that he’s getting off so much to the feeling of Heahmund grinding against his cock, or to the sound of his voice feeding him little dirty lines and questions. “ _Einn minn_ …”

Heahmund kisses him and swallows his moans. There’s a dull ache throughout his lower body, going from the small of his back to his thighs. It’s quite a lot of effort to keep grinding now, though it would never be a chore to gyrate his hips to meet his boy’s own. Thin rivers of blood are running down his spine, courtesy of Ivar’s nails still clawing into him. At least his boy is too gone to torture him in any other way than this… Heahmund`s heart grows three sizes at how he’s reduced this proud, handsome Devil-General to a mess who can only remember his mother tongue.

Heahmund wants to think it’s only pride inflating his heart. But his soul sings too much at his boy’s possession of him for it to be only that.

When his boy comes, he does so much more silently than Heahmund had been expecting. There are no screams, no proclamations to resound in the church’s echo; only his boy choking on a sob. Heahmund cradles his hips against his own, lets him spill over both their bodies. It feels only right to let his boy paint him in white after Heahmund did the same some moments ago.

The next surprise comes when his boy’s tight grip doesn’t loosen once he enters his afterglow. On the contrary, he holds Heahmund even tighter, as if refusing to let go of him just yet. Heahmund lets him bury his face against his shoulder, accepting that his boy doesn’t want to look at him right now. There is nothing he could see that would make Heahmund let go of him, though. Nothing except having his boy release him first; and that is a physical action, not something Heahmund could see in his handsome face.

The church stays as silent as they are. Heahmund wants to offer more prayers and penitence and self-flagellation to atone for the monumental sin he’s just committed. But no words come to him. There’s only the weightless sensation that accompanies him in the afterglow, and the satisfaction of having had the pleasure to love his boy like this. His soul is tainted blacker than soot; no salvation will ever come to him after today, Bishop or not.

Disturbingly, Heahmund can’t even rebel against that.

“Will you beat yourself up now?” Ivar’s voice comes from somewhere against his collar, or perhaps his shoulder. They’re still pressed so close that it’s hard to tell exactly where his own body begins and where his boy’s starts.

“You already drew my blood.”

Ivar seems surprised by those words; he gasps softly, forces Heahmund to lean back enough to slide a hand in between their bodies. His fingertips are warm, wet with the brilliant red he extracted from Heahmund’s back. Ivar looks at it almost in trance. It’s the same expression Heahmund has seen on him that one time that Ivar forced him to sink a knife into the hollow of a man’s throat. Ivar’s whole attention is captured by the little, red rivulets; Heahmund can only stare at him, overtaken by the same reverential trance that holds Ivar in place.

The natural light reflecting off Ivar’s eyes gives them a special gleam. Heahmund knows of people who would describe it as “magical”. They would bow down to this boy made of fire, they’d praise him in war and in song. Their devotion would be undoubtable, and yet sacrilegious in and of itself. Nobody deserves to be worshipped in the same way as God is.

And yet, a very vocal part of Heahmund’s unconsciousness screams the opposite is true.

Ivar brings his own fingers to his mouth, tongue coming out to lap at them. His eyelids fall closed at the first taste. Heahmund cannot look away as Ivar gasps and penetrates himself, chasing the metallic notes of the drying blood on his fingertips. The first knuckle enters easily, but he seems to choke by the time he reaches the second; his eyelids flutter in discomfort.

“Don’t force it.” Heahmund takes a gentle grasp of his wrist. Ivar’s fingers slide out of his mouth. A thin trail of saliva connects the tip of his tongue with his index; God Almighty, but how does Heahmund’s attention snap to it…

“Do you like that, Heahmund?” Ivar’s voice ebbs and flows like the tide, pulling him deeper into the abyss of the damned. The thin trail is broken. “Do you like watching me taste your blood?”

Heahmund growls at both the words themselves and their unholy meanings. He lurches forward, closes the little distance in between them to physically shut Ivar up with a searing kiss. Somehow, it only serves to make the condemned chorus within him scream louder; Heahmund knows right then and there that there is nothing he could ever say or do to escape being thrown into Hell for all eternity. Fevered, he lets the madness overtake him.

Will his boy meet him there forevermore…?

Heahmund only needs one look into Ivar’s very blue eyes to gather an answer; and something tells him that his boy has found an answer of his own within Heahmund’s gaze. Neither dares speak it out loud, though. That would be far too intimate, far too real for either man to withstand without breaking under the force of their combined desires. It is easier to simply stare into each other’s eyes, to read dark understanding and a twisted sort of fascination.

Oh, it is far easier to redress in silence. Heahmund pales and blushes on quick succession when he catches how Ivar’s gaze darkens like the skies before a violent storm as the boy fishes his own ruined undershirt from wherever it’d fallen to when Heahmund tore it off his body. A despondent Heathen to the last consequence, Ivar holds his Bishop’s gaze; Heahmund blushes more in anger and lust alike when Ivar leaves the torn clothe on the edge of the altar. Now whoever enters this unholy temple will for sure know exactly _how_ it was desecrated.

Heahmund wishes to lash out; Ivar sees it and tosses him one of his own furs. His Bishop catches it with cat-like reflexes, stares at it for a moment. Ivar does not watch as he wraps it around his body, but his gaze fixates on his Bishop’s body once it’s covered. Ivar guesses that he doesn’t want to provoke any Dane into teasing him for his Bishop’s garments; and especially not when everybody knows that Heahmund’s prisoner status leaves him no room to respond in kind.

They both take secret pleasure in how tight Ivar wraps ropes around Heahmund’s wrists, binding him like the prisoner he’s become to the Great Heathen Army. The sinister fascination glinting in the boy’s eyes is unbearably hot to directly look at; much like the midday sunrays on a clear summer day. Heahmund finds himself grateful that the skies are covered in rainclouds, the distant rolling of thunder foretelling the arrival of the storm. Ivar looks up, delighted with what he calls “Thor’s strength”; Heahmund immediately scoffs and rebukes him. Ivar doesn’t lose that damned smile as he tugs on the ropes much stronger than necessary to lead his Bishop around towards the forth-camp. Heahmund’s attention goes from his boy’s eyes to his mouth, and then to all the red marks disappearing under his armour’s collar.

God help him, he can already feel himself hardening at the prospect of keeping them all angry-red and fresh… It does not help his immortal soul that, when his gaze locks with Ivar’s, it’s extremely easy to tell that his boy is thinking the same – and yet, it feels like the peaceful calm that always washes over him after finishing his penitence.

**Author's Note:**

> Hnefatafl is a “Viking chess” kind of game; it was popular before (Indian) chess took over. Ivar and Heahmund have played it in the show; see [episode 5x07](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmVbnaE8WiM).
> 
> Ergi is an insult. It means “unmanly” (also used as “coward”, though), and I’ve seen it used to insult men who take on passive roles during sex. The fic references both parts of the insult, but I’m sure IRL it was more complex than what I present in this fic.
> 
> Vikingr is an easy one; it means “warrior”.
> 
> Minn means “my" in Old Norse, although I took the liberty to also use as “mine” in this fic. “Einn” means “only”. It may not be exact to say “einn minn” is “only mine”, though; I’m still not fluent in Old Norse!
> 
> Oh and as a curiosity/fun fact: Vikings bathed on Saturday! Hence the reference to that in the fic; I assume Heahmund would’ve gotten quite an eyeful of attractive Heathens all around after he’d grown used to see them all bloodied from battle *wink wonk*


End file.
